


I'll Be Mother

by PostcardsfromTheoryland



Series: All that time, people thinking the worst of you [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Family, Gen, discussion of (fake) suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 05:10:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4466633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PostcardsfromTheoryland/pseuds/PostcardsfromTheoryland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are several ways to reach Mycroft Holmes, if one has enough connections. Emails, texts, post, phone lines in several offices of several countries. But there is one line reserved for a very small, <strike>special</strike> particular group of people.</p>
<p>One of them is dead. One of them is in Finland, pretending to be dead.</p>
<p>Which just leaves Mummy and Father, who are currently very, <em>very</em> cross.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Mother

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to get back into fic writing for real, and figured I'd start with a little character study that's been floating around my head for awhile.

“A very irate woman on the private line for you, sir.”

Oh, good Lord, what was it now? Mycroft massaged his temples and allowed himself a small sigh. He did not have time for whatever crisis was brewing in Parliament. Certainly they could survive without his assistance for a few hours. Sherlock had just arrived at his first destination, a small town on the outskirts of Helsinki, and Mycroft was supposed to be getting him settled and set up with the local authorities. Goodness knows he couldn’t leave the boy alone for more than about twenty seconds before Sherlock managed to cause an international incident.

But wait…

“Which line did you say, Anthea?”

“Private, sir,” she repeated, a smirk just barely audible in her voice.

Oh. Oh no.

Mycroft gingerly picked up the receiver, waving Anthea out of the room as he did so. There would be no way to conduct this call gracefully; he couldn’t even manage to get one syllable out before the voice on the other end of the line was screaming at him, close to hysterics.

“Mycroft Richard Timothy Holmes, how could you?”

Oh, Lord.

“Mummy, please calm down…”

“I will do no such thing! Your brother – your baby brother killed himself and you didn’t even bother to tell us? You didn’t think we would want to know?” She took a steadying breath and Mycroft (cringing as he heard the start of sniffles) tried to break into the conversation.

“Now listen, that’s…”

“Don’t patronise your mother, Mycroft.” Oh, God. Both of them were on the phone now. He would have to tell them a half-truth. He and Sherlock had discussed the story they (or rather, he, as Sherlock hadn’t thought it necessary to tell them anyways) were going to give to their parents. Relatively simple: Sherlock being pursued by a crazed murderer, had to go into hiding for his own safety. Mycroft had been planning to make the trip to the States to explain it in person. It seemed they would need to move the timeline.

“We’re booking plane tickets,” Mummy said tearfully. “Will you at least tell us when and where the funeral is?” Mycroft had to repress the urge to allow his head to drop onto the desk. There was no getting around this one.

“It – already happened.”

The complete silence on the other end of the phone should not have been terrifying for a man accustomed to negotiating peace treaties and organising military coups.

“Already happened,” his father finally repeated blankly, which seemed to spurn Mummy back into her tirade.

“Mycroft, how could you? I know we didn’t have the best of relationships with him but he was our son! Your little brother! Why wouldn’t we want to attend his funeral?” She ended the diatribe with a sort of strained gasp for breath, and Mycroft found himself concerned that she would have a heart attack. Better remedy the situation.

“Listen, Mummy, no, just listen, alright?” A pause, more sniffles. “Sherlock faked his death.”

“He what?” It was their father now, and Mycroft indulged in an odd sort of glee picturing Mummy at a loss for words.

“He faked his death. He’s fine.” Well, annoyed and bored out of his mind in rural Finland and resolutely ignoring his desire to reveal the truth to a certain Dr. Watson, but mostly fine.

“Then put him on,” Mummy demanded. This wouldn’t go well.

“I can’t. He isn’t here.”

“When will he be back? I can wait for him. It will give me more time to inform you what a heinous son you’ve been.” Of course, Sherlock fakes his death and disappears without so much as a note in the post to their parents, and somehow _Mycroft_ is the problem son.

“I don’t know when he’ll be back. Not for several months, at least. And no, before you ask, I cannot tell you where he is.” There was more silence, an angrier type this time as Mummy geared up for another shouting session. “Mummy, it’s for his own safety. There are things I simply cannot tell you over the phone.” That seemed to take the wind out of her sails for exactly 3.8 seconds

“Well, I think you at least owe us some information for the scare.” Mycroft hesitated; he and Sherlock still hadn’t ruled out the possibility, however unpleasant, of a mole in his own ranks. One that could use anything he told their parents to do Sherlock harm. But then his father just had to pull out his trump card.

“Please, Mycroft?”

Blast it.

“If I must. But understand that this is sensitive information – you’re not to tell anyone.”

“We’re not idiots, Mycroft,” Mummy replied huffily. That remained to be seen.

“Sherlock was targeted by a madman. We couldn’t stop him, so we had to take some rather drastic measures. He faked his death to buy us some time, and he’s currently in hiding. One of my safehouses. You’ll understand why I can’t let you see him, of course.” And then Mummy, Margot Vernet Holmes, actually _snorted_ at him.

“Pull the other one, Mycroft. There is no possible way that my Sherlock is sitting in a safehouse while you take all the glory of outsmarting this man.” Amazing how quickly that woman could go from distraught to perceptive. “Now I’d like the truth, please.”

“I have no idea what you mean by that.”

“Mycroft,” his father said sternly. Fine. Sherlock would just need to deal with their parents knowing everything.

“There was a madman, and Sherlock did fake his death. But the criminal had a large organisation, and Sherlock has taken it upon himself to,” Mycroft paused, attempting to word this part gently, “deal with the remaining members. I tried to convince him that it was a foolish endeavour, but…”

“But he’s Sherlock,” she finished for him. “And he’s certainly not a fraud. I of all people should know that. You need to fix the papers, Mikey.”

“I’m not actually in charge of the newspapers, Mother.”

“Is this a large organisation?” Father asked.

“As I said, I can’t share details over the phone, but yes, it is rather vast.”

“Listen, Mycroft,” and it was still so odd to hear their father sound that serious, “if he’s ever near us, you inform him that he’s to visit.”

“That won’t be safe for you,” _or him_ , Mycroft thought, but better to leave that last part out.

“I don’t care if he brings a dozen assassins home with him, Mikey. I want to see him. We haven’t seen him in so long, and then I thought – well. The matter is settled, anyways. We expect weekly updates, Mycroft.” And then, with a very definitive click, she hung up on him. The annoyance at still being bossed about by his mother was compounded by the text waiting for him.

_Make sure L doesn’t get fired. I want work when I get back._

As if he wouldn’t have protected the DI’s career anyways. It probably antagonised Sherlock to not be able to sign his text. He smirked internally, picturing his little brother holed up in a Finnish café and scowling at his new burner phone.

Sensing that the conversation was over, Anthea chose that moment to return, flashing him a knowing smile as she set down the newest files on Moriarty’s Scandinavian network.

Right then. Sherlock needed several dossiers, their parents needed an upgraded level of protection now that they were in the loop, and the Finnish government needed his express guarantee that Sherlock wouldn’t blow anything up.

Time to get to work.


End file.
